


Like a Good Boy

by Dreams2Paper11



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Begging, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Rimming, This is all porn, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 20:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12755676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreams2Paper11/pseuds/Dreams2Paper11
Summary: Slade introduces Dick to a new vice.





	Like a Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct result of wantstobelieve and the beautiful Slade/Dick rimming artwork they made over on tumblr. Please take a look when you get the chance, nsfw link is [here](http://wantstobelieve.tumblr.com/post/167315887522/peckish-for-a-late-night-snack-super-late)

He’s not exactly sure why all of his worst decisions seem to be happening on a Tuesday lately, but Dick figures it’s got something to do with the mostly-naked male lounging on the sofa in front of him.

“How was your shower?” Slade asks, amusement tangible.

Dick considers complaining about the leaking faucet, but Slade’s shit-eating grin makes it clear that he couldn’t care less about the lacklustre water pressure of the rented apartment.

“Wet,” he answers flatly, tossing aside the towel. He’d pulled on his Nightwing hoodie (Christmas gag gift from Babs) ~~helpfully hung up inside the bathroom  as a leftover from the last time they did this and Slade held onto it~~ ; it probably looks ridiculous paired with his boxers and nothing else, but he’s never had to dress up to impress Slade anyway.

Not that he’d come across the mercenary while finishing up his evening patrol, followed him back to his temporary apartment, and stolen his shower while the assassin disassembled his armor in the bedroom suite, all with the conscious _intent_ of getting laid. Dick would _never_.

“You know I love our booty calls,” Slade says, leaning back on the squashy sofa. His silver hair is tousled rather attractively, and it might have stolen Dick’s complete attention were it not for the fact of his utter nakedness everywhere else, excluding the fitted black pair of underwear. “But I have to say, I’d been thinking about downing a beer or three and yelling at the TV a while before hitting the sack tonight.”

Utter load of crap. Slade had let Dick tail him the whole way to his current hideout, purposefully taking a difficult route over the rooftops to push him to keep up.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what plan of yours brings you to ‘Haven this time,” Dick answers evenly.

A tingle travels up his spine when Slade laughs, deep and warm. “Well, you won’t find it in my shower,” he says. He stretches out a hand, making grabby motions. “Come ‘ere.” It’s not a request. Never is, never will be.

Dick crosses the floor to him. “You never stay in town without a reason,” he says, remaining outwardly cool even when Slade yanks him closer by the hem of his hoodie.

“Well, I have simple-enough plans this time,” Slade admits loftily, voice relaxed and cheerful, but two of his fingers are slowly winding around and around the hoodie’s drawstring, tugging Dick closer in increments. Warm puffs of his breath roll over Dick’s face.

Dick scoffs as he lets himself be tugged into position on the sofa, straddling Slade’s waist. His heartbeat is clamoring in his chest and he’s sure Slade can feel the growing hardness pressed sweetly against the solid, massive thigh shouldering his legs apart. God, but Slade’s practically got him trained, pavlovian arousal.

“You and ‘simple plans’ don’t belong in the same sentence unless there’s a “never make’ between them,” Dick says flatly. His lips are dry, somewhat chapped by the cold, rushing winds of Bludhaven’s rooftops. It’s barely a moment’s thought to wet them, tongue nervously rolling along the seam.

Slade watches the quick movement and his slash of a grin tugs wider. “Oh, yeah,” he says, voice dipping into 'rumble’ territory, and Dick suppresses the cold shiver that zips up his spine at the sex-tone. “I’m gonna _wreck_ you tonight, kid.”

It’s not like they’ve ever done slow-and-gentle anyway, but the words ‘wreck’ and ‘Slade’ bring up such toe-curlingly good memories—especially, _mm_ , that one time on the roof when Slade bodily lifted him up against an AC unit and pounded into him with Dick’s costume in peeled layers around his ankles.

Just the memory makes his eyes want to spin back into his head.

Like hell he’s ever gonna let Slade see that, though. “Good luck,” he says disinterestedly, as blase as discussing the weather at the water cooler.

The grin, impossibly, widens. “Don’t think I’ll be needing it, actually,” Slade murmurs lowly, and then his teeth are closing around Dick’s bottom lip, kneading the fattest part back and forth with just enough pressure to be felt without being painful. Dick’s entire body tightens up and goes, _oh, hello,_ focusing delightedly on the nerve signals flaring up in the sensitive skin of his mouth. He _loves_ kissing, loves to kiss and be kissed all the way through sex, if he can get it. Damn Slade for knowing that.

Damn _Dick,_  for letting him.

“You gonna be a good boy for me tonight, or am I gonna have to get physical?” Slade mutters lowly against his lips, not removing his teeth to speak. The vibrations of his words buzz through the freshly indented nibble-marks and Dick inhales sharply, powerless to do anything but seal himself tighter against the man and open his mouth wider in mindless petition.

Slade’s tongue drags itself over the tender indents in his bottom lip, back and forth hypnotically, stroking with just enough perfect, lovely pressure to send shocks skittering down Dick’s spine.

“I— _yeah,”_ Dick says, helpless.

Slade laughs, pulling back to shake his head fondly. “You’re lucky none of your rogues have ever kissed you in the middle of a fight, kid,” he says, “you’d be dead in seconds.”

“Hey,” Dick says crossly, “I resent tha—” before Slade’s hands slide up the planes of his face, sinking into his hair and pulling him back into the searing kiss.

His hands are large enough to frame the sides of Dick’s face and tangle through his hair. Not exerting a harsh amount of strength, but enough that Dick can’t freely move away or turn his head from side to side. The arousal kindling in Dick’s stomach tightens, like a string that goes through his groin and lower pelvis being pulled taut.

Slade's in _that_ kind of mood, tonight.

He falls silent, panting wordlessly as Slade slots their lips together and pushes his tongue between Dick’s lips to rub sinuously against the slick inside. His fingers rub maddening circles against his scalp, the tactile sensation so shockingly pleasurable that the hairs stand up on Dick's arms.

When Dick tries to take control of the kiss, Slade puffs a laugh against his lips and bites fondly at his mouth. The hands that had been teasing gentle little motions in his hair tighten ruthlessly, yanking his head back and breaking the kiss with the wet noise of broken suction.

“Slade,” Dick snaps breathlessly as the hand in his hair keeps him from swaying back into the kiss.

“Oh, did you want something?” Slade asks charmingly, leaning in to rub his nose along the curve of Dick’s exposed throat.

“No—no marks above the collar,” he barely strangles the words out past the unexpected tongue laving strongly against his pulse point, migrating dangerously higher with every sweep.

“So you don’t want me to do _this_ ,” Slade murmurs against the wet patch, and then there are teeth rolling the skin underneath the hollow of his jaw up into hot, wet, _strong_ suction, and Dick’s hips jump reflexively. There will be hickeys left behind, and the collar of Dick’s uniform—both the police one and the Nightwing suit—don’t rise high enough to cover them, and everyone at the precinct will _see_ tomorrow—

“ _Nng—”_ he grunts, just managing to catch the moan before it flies from his mouth.

Pressed so close together, he can feel Slade’s forming grin as one of his hands slides around to embrace the curve of Dick’s skull while the other slinks down over his lower back. “Stop complaining and just enjoy the ride. I told you, I’ve got plans.”

“You—” chokes Dick helplessly, hips still quivering, and obeys. There’s what feels like miles and miles of rippling muscle supporting him, and he latches on as the suction at his neck continues. Of _course_ Slade knows where his favorite hickey spots are. In retaliation, Dick skates his fingers over the swell of pectorals and down over the defined abdominal muscles in an attempt to not seem so blindsided.

He’s always prided himself on his dedication to giving his partner pleasure during sex, and he’s not about to lose that reputation now. Even if it is _Deathstroke_ whose teeth are nettling rather distractingly at the soft skin behind his ear.

 _Friendly reminder, Slade’s only in a pair of tight-fitting boxers,_  his brain whispers slyly, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to press the heel of his hand against the considerable bulge tenting the front and rub in tight circles. Slade’s hips flex powerfully upwards— _bingo_ —lifting Dick with them, and he smirks through the resultant appreciative moan. _Why stop there?_ says Dick’s internal sex coach, which is another good piece of advice, thank you very much. He finds the damp, mouthwateringly-fat head and begins stroking the underside through the thin material.

“Damn, but I love your hands, kid,” Slade says throatily. His goatee scrapes against the sensitized skin of Dick’s neck. “Love it when I wrestle you on your knees and get those pretty little fingers wrapped around my cock.”

 _Heel, boy,_ Dick thinks dazedly at his own cock, who is stupidly encouraged by the conversation.

He’s reeled in for another deep kiss before Slade breaks contact and pushes back on Dick’s chest (sneaking a quick grope at Dick’s hardening nipples while doing so). “Turn around.”

Dick thinks about protesting, but Slade’s eye is heavily-lidded, smoldering steel-blue almost entirely swallowed up by dilated pupil.

“Trust me, you’ll like it,” Slade coaxes.

“Oh, now I’m scared,” Dick snorts, but God help him, he’s already turning around, graceful and fluid. His face is burning and it’s starting to get a little too hot under the Nightwing hoodie. Slade’s hands rubbing up along the outer swell of his ass shouldn’t have been as familiar as they were.

A relatively light _smack_ cracks against the right cheek and Dick twitches. His face feels like it’s on fire.

 _A world-renowned mercenary just smacked my ass,_ he marvels to himself, even as he sits still for the next slap. _How is this my life?_ The shame is starting to wrap in on itself, twisting around with arousal until they shake hands and Dick can’t be sure which is feeding which. He shouldn’t have come here.

“Did you know,” Slade says musingly, hands going back to their possessive rubbing and squeezing. “That I can’t count on both hands the amount of times I’ve heard criminals talk about the perfection of your ass? Oh, and your _mouth,_  too. They have some very creative ideas for shutting it up; it’s _obscene_.”

It really should turn him off to know he’s been so casually discussed in  _that_ way.

Like most things involving Slade, it shamefully doesn’t.

“Stop talking,” he gasps, wriggling slightly. His legs have fallen wider apart, bracing the sides of Slade’s muscular chest. The teasing would be a whole lot easier to bear if he wasn’t nearly rock-hard by now, aching to just throw Slade to the apartment’s floor and grind down onto him until he came.

Perhaps Slade senses the thought, because suddenly his massive hands are spread along Dick’s hips, the fingers digging in just enough to create a sweet, bracing ache.

“Don’t get squirmy on me now, kid,” he says, rich with dictatorial satisfaction, “I’ve got you right where I want you.” A light, open-handed slap to the lower curve of Dick’s ass. “These, off.”

Dick thinks about saying _Yes Sir_ sarcastically, but reconsiders.

It’s difficult to look graceful when you’re shimmying out of boxers that have become damp and clingy in a few _sensitive_ places. Dick rises up on his knees and lets Sade obligingly tug down the waistband.

“There we are,” Slade purrs. Two huge hands knead his cheeks appreciatively, taking handholds of the round flesh and moving them in circles. "I've _missed_ you two."

“Slade!” Dick snaps breathlessly. It’s bizarre that he should feel so scandalized after everything they’ve done together, but if he’s correct about where he thinks this is heading—and it’s looking like he might be—then this is quickly about to become uncharted territory.

“Man, I’m good,” Slade chuckles, “Barely even touched you yet and I’ve got you saying my name.”

Okay, time-out, Dick _loves_ women, all right? He loves everything about having sex with them, loves getting his head between their thighs and burying his face against that warm, wet, secret place and giving it to them with his tongue until they’re pulling at his hair and keening. Just thinking about going down on his current female crush is generally enough to get him hard.

In the past few years, however, Dick has realized that he doesn’t _only_ love women. He might be more familiar and comfortable with the fairer sex, but sometimes he sees a fine-looking male torso and strong, masculine hands and just imagines himself pinned down and split open, writhing blissfully under a greater strength and straining upwards against those muscles—

His eyes nearly roll back at the thought.

So, ahem, _yeah_. Dick likes men, too.

But just because he likes men, specifically likes getting thrown down sometimes and having all the contrariness fucked right out of him, doesn’t mean he’s done _everything_ on the guy/guy bingo card.

Meaning, in this case, being the recipient of a rimjob.

Without warning, the callused hands, so unmistakably male, dig deep into the crevasse and prise apart his cheeks, baring himself totally to the lounging man underneath him. Dick gasps in shocked, instinctive outrage, feeling himself clench all over.

“What a pretty hole,” Slade says, and Dick can’t tell if he’s mocking or serious, _damn him_ —“Look at the way you tighten up for me. Gonna feel so good around my cock tonight.”

Before Dick can answer to _that,_ the hands holding him open tug backwards.

Something wet touches his perineum.

Dick jumps in surprise. “Wait,” he says helplessly, trying to pull away, but Slade’s hands keep him securely in place and _oh, fuck,_ that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Never has someone put their mouth on him…. _there._ He can’t shake the instinctive humiliated disgust from rising up and choking him, because it seems so filthy, even if he made a point to clean _very_ thoroughly in the shower. Not because he thought he might be having sex in the near future, of course, _I swear Batman, I have no idea how it happened, I didn’t even know that was his apartment, honest!_

“Waited long enough,” Slade rumbles. His muffled words buzz against the sensitive area. “Thought maybe you’d finally loosen up the tights enough to ask me, but it seems I’ll have to take matters into my own hands, as usual.”

His tongue begins slow, hard undulations against the sheer, previously untouched skin there, mimicking the roll of sex, and Dick shudders. It feels like all the nerves in his body have clustered at that spot, summoned by the wet muscle laving against the delicate skin. His cock is leaking beads of precome like the apartment's dripping faucet and his hamstrings are shaking uncontrollably.

Probably should have stretched before this.

His cheeks spread apart wider when Slade buries his face between them, allowing his tongue to reach deeper. Dick lurches forward only to be caught and yanked back by Slade’s right hand, which has slid around his waist until it’s pressed _very_ nicely against his hard-on.

 _Aaaaaand_ that’s the tickly rasp of facial hair, yup. Dick shivers, face flaming. It’s not... _not_ pleasurable....

“I’m gonna make you come like this,” Slade surfaces long enough to growl. “Maybe I’ll touch your dick if you beg nicely.” Then he goes back to work.

“Not—not that easy,” Dick breathes angrily, but he can’t stop himself from rocking forward against that obliging hand, curled indulgently to let him grind into the hard knuckles.

Slade makes a mocking, “oh really?” noise, and twitches his hand just enough to apply a small bit of pressure on Dick’s cock.

 _“Ah!”_ Dick gasps, hips jumping away from the sharp shock of pleasure. This, of course, only serves to sway himself back onto Slade’s face and the waiting tongue.

…Which has traveled upwards and is now spiraling his opening in strong, pressing circles.

It feel so _good_. He honestly hadn’t thought it would feel this pleasurable—imagined it would be more like if someone licked part of your arm and expected it to reduce you to a shivery wreck. How is it possible for it to feel so good?

He falls silent, mouth open, as that broad tongue gets down to business, wetting him everywhere. Skin slides over skin now almost as easily as if they’d used lube.

In response to his submission, the hand at his front begins to run its knuckles lightly up and down his length, sliding through trails of pre-come, then dipping low to cup and roll his balls rewardingly.

Dick can’t help it.

He moans, long and low.

Apparently, that was the only sign Slade was waiting for, because now the tongue kicks it into overdrive, darting against his furled opening and wriggling enthusiastically.

“ _Oh,_ ” Dick says, softly, helplessly, doing his best to keep quiet and utterly failing. _“Oh, oh.”_ It’s like Slade’s tongue is punching shocked noises of pleasure out of him with each strong, inwards stroke.

He can _feel_ himself loosening up down there, trembling and flexing to draw Slade’s tongue deeper and then clenching up again when he remembers exactly just where it is.

It gets a little easier as the minutes roll by. Every pass of Slade’s tongue buoys him higher on a rising sea of anticipatory pleasure. And beard burn--well, that's new. Probably gonna make running over rooftops tomorrow very uncomfortable.

Restless at the building sensation, Dick swivels at the waist enough to toss a hand behind him and downwards, seeking out the mess of silvery hair bobbing underneath him. Slade’s hands leave Dick’s hip and front to grasp at his cheeks again. Two broad thumbs pull them apart—then crudely do the same to his hole, where he can feel himself twitching and fluttering uncontrollably.

He flushes when the apartment’s cool air insinuates itself where he’s been made slicked and sensitive.

“Wish you could see the way you’re opening up for me,” Slade says lewdly, rubbing his fingers in gentle, soothing circles, but the grin is palpable in his voice. “You were tighter than a girl on her first date when we started, but now look at you—” the tips of his thumbs curl _in_ where they’re holding his hole apart, catching just on the inside of the damp rim and Dick bucks when Slade’s breath rolls over the area—“now you’re all red and puffy and just _aching_ for a little something extra, aren’t you?”

“Stop, _teasing!”_ Dick pants, and then, shocking himself, thrusts back onto the man’s face and yanks sharply at his fistful of silver hair.

Slade makes a hungry groaning noise and thrusts his tongue in, breaching him fully.

Dick yowls, jerking away—but those hands won’t let him move. His tongue performs strong, circular sweeps, and Dick can feel it rubbing up against the little whorls and folds just inside the sphincter. Then Slade pulls back enough to seal his lips over the opening in an open-mouthed kiss and _sucks._

Dick doesn’t scream. He can’t pull enough air into his chest to do so.

Teeth come back into play—they always do, with Slade—and small bites tug at his rim, tongue and lips and fingers smoothing away the heated stings. His opening flexes in a desperate attempt to draw those wonderful, thick digits further inside his body.

“Slade, I—” the trembling words are torn from him in ragged bursts. Every muscle is winding tighter and tighter, pulling him into a rigid arch that strains against Slade’s hold without relaxing. His thoughts are melting under the firebrand of Slade’s fingers. Can’t escape the pleasure, can’t stop it, can’t do anything but _take and take and take._ “Can’t— _aahn—_ need to come—”

When Slade’s hand wraps around Dick’s weeping cock and jacks him wetly four times, arrhythmic to the muscular thrusts of his tongue, he can’t hold it back anymore.  His balls draw up flush and everything below the waist contracts into one perfect, singing nerve of pleasure.

 _“Yesss,”_ he moans exultantly, raising himself enough to fuck up into the perfect circle of Slade’s fingers—

—that tighten mercilessly between the shaft and the glans.

“Unh, _no!”_ Dick howls as that rushing, whole-body sensation plateaus—he tries to thrust forward again, but Slade’s fingers have slipped away entirely. When he reaches a hand down to grasp himself, Slade captures it and pins it against the back of the sofa.

 _“Slade!”_ he snarls, eyes pricking with reflexive tears. His hips are still rocking minutely, shivery little bolts of pleasure arcing through his taxed muscles. Pre drizzles from his glistening cockhead.

“You fucking _son_ of a—” he starts, cut off abruptly by the hand suddenly squeezing his throat. Slade’s readjusting his position, one hand gripping Dick’s slim neck with steady strength as he slides up the couch until Dick is sitting in his lap, back pressed against chest with barely enough room for air between them.

He can barely breathe—huge, sucking gasps bring in just enough air to half-inflate his chest. His lungs are already aching. 

“Thought your daddy would have trained all those naughty words out of you by now, Grayson,” Slade says pleasantly, as though his fingers were not clamped in Dick’s throat with steel-like power. “Guess I’ll have to fill in as teacher today.” The grin is palpable in his voice. “You know how I _enjoy_ a willing pupil.”

His voice drops a few octaves and smirking lips press themselves to Dick’s ear. “What would Bats think if he saw his protoge like this—all fucked-out and cock just _dripping_ because of my tongue? Think he’d be mad we were fucking? He doesn’t have much room to speak, though, considering his feline friend. But I guess my kill-count’s a smidgen higher than hers, hm?”

He _always_ does this, every time, and irrationally, it never fails to piss Dick off. Slade _knows_ he wavers between choosing to honor his morals, and getting his brains fucked out by the deadly international mercenary. Usually Dick can just let himself pretend, but not when Slade's growling silken reminders of his _occupation_ in Dick's sensitive ear.

A sensitive ear that, at the moment, finds itself being laved by a rough tongue. Another one of his turn-ons, god _damn_ the man.

Dick wants to curse, wants to shove off his lap, wants to _breathe_ , but he can’t do a thing against the older man’s unnatural strength, even if he can think of a million different ways to escape the pin. Slade’s cock, a rigid rod of blazing warmth, is wedged between Dick’s cheeks—Dick can’t remember when Slade lost his boxers, but granted, he’s currently having trouble remembering his own _name._

No matter how often they do this, the sheer girth of it always takes Dick’s breath away. Every time Slade rocks his hips, it rubs against and over Dick’s hole, the head catching on his rim on each upstroke.

An open-mouthed kiss presses against Dick’s sweaty temple, and then another back to the shell of his ear. _“You know what I want,”_ Slade murmurs, almost sweetly.

 _No,_ Dick mouths. No, he won’t, he won’t give up his tattered pride for this.

“Hmm,” Slade hums, and then shoves his legs between Dick’s, forcing them apart. His feet loop over Dick’s ankles and push the V of his legs even wider. Everything wet, twitching and swollen is put entirely on display to the living room. Not that there's anybody there to observe, of course, but still. The position is-- _vulgar_ , for starters.

“Now,” Slade begins conversationally, “I’m going to put my hand on you— _like this—_ and jack you off nice and slow, but I’m not pushing you over until I hear those words. So you can either keep your pretty little hands at your sides like a good boy or I can hold them down while we wait.”

Slade’s hand around his throat loosens enough to allow Dick the slightest increase in air. Black spots swim in his vision. His hardness hasn’t diminished at all.

To his shame and helpless arousal, his trembling hands creep over Slade’s massive thighs and stay put there, gripping the bulging quad muscles as handholds.

“Knew you’d be sweet for me,” Slade murmurs in satisfaction and Dick, to his eternal horror, watches his cock twitch at the praise. Another bead of pre emerges at the engorged head and trickles down, down, only to be caught by Slade’s fist as he pumps with slow, intense pressure that increases towards the tip. Wet, slurping _smacks_ ring accusingly in Dick’s ears.

It feels so _good._

 _“Ah, ah, ah,”_ Dick whimpers breathlessly. He can only flex his hips so much, but, oh fuck, that’s good too, being able to strain upwards and find himself overpowered at every turn. There’s not enough oxygen getting to his brain.

“How does it feel?” Slade prompts in a wet, heavy exhale. His tongue is tracing the patch of skin behind his ear, back and forth, unceasing.

Dick forces himself silent through herculean effort.

Slade clucks his tongue and the pace increases, along with the tempo of filthy noises echoing through the apartment.

Dick recognizes the edge coming up again and twists futilely, anticipating—maybe if he stays silent Slade won’t know—

Again, the hand comes off just before he tumbles over that brilliant peak.

“No!” bursts out of Dick’s throat. He tosses his head frantically from side to side, keening as the lightning-sensitivity fades away. A frustrated tear spills down his cheek. No, no, _no,_ he was so _close—_

He could touch himself, he knows, and maybe just one touch would be enough to set him off before Slade could stop him. But his hands remain where they are.

“Ask me,” Slade cues, fingertips returning to lightly dance over his shaft. Dick, with no small amount of spite, digs his nails into the meaty muscle of Slade's thighs. Slade moans huskily as though it had been a light caress instead.

Then he speeds up his hand, and all of Dick's petty, half-formed plans collapse like a house of cards.

It feels like dying, like every single thought not related to achieving his orgasm has been stripped from his mind. Every part of him aches. 

He can't help it.

 _“Please!”_ he cries out. His entire body is shuddering uncontrollably, every muscle pulled taut. “Oh, God, Slade, please!”

“So you _like_ this, then,” Slade teases, gripping a little tighter. _Schlick, schlick, schlick._ Dick spasms as the pleasure once again begins its exponential climb. It’s like Slade’s hand is sinking right into him and twanging directly at his nervous system.

“Yes!” Dick sobs.

“What was that?” Slade asks, feigning confusion. His index finger circles against the spot underneath the drooling head, nettling directly at the cluster of nerves there, and his hand is big enough that his pinky and ring finger can curl up against his balls and stroke _just_ so while his thumb sweeps back and forth over the shaft.

 _“YES! I LOVE IT, SLADE, I LOVE IT,_ PLEASE!” Dick bellows, eyes rolling back, nearly seizing up in overwhelm.

The hand that had relaxed to simply cradling his neck constricts again, and Dick can’t breathe but that’s fine, it makes the pleasure sharper—there’s a balloon in his head, rising higher and higher until it pops and Slade doesn't stop his hand and Dick _shatters_ to perfect, numbing _yesyesyes!_ gratification.

It takes a while to come back down.

He’s vaguely aware of Slade grunting savagely behind him, cock thrusting against his hole, and then the feel of semen coating the top of his cheeks. The hoodie, damp with sweat, probably catches the rest.

He curls and opens his fingers idly, so blissed-out that the realization of a very awkward drycleaning appointment in his future barely even makes him embarrassed.

It would be the most stupid thing in the world to fall asleep right now, leaned against the heaving, sweaty chest of one of the world’s most dangerous assassins. Batman trained him better than that for him to do so.

But then again, as Slade helpfully pointed out, Bruce regularly sleeps with Selina.

Dick salutes his mentor with a mental middle finger and lets his eyes close.

 _Whatever_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never even written a kiss before in my previous fics, idek how this burst out. Let me know if you enjoyed ;)


End file.
